


Commencement

by silenceinwinter2019



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 10:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20777318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceinwinter2019/pseuds/silenceinwinter2019
Summary: He asked him what he wanted for birthday. He knew it was bizarre, the two of them talking about appropriate presents, eating out on a weekday, critiquing on food, as if the world was still a normal place.





	Commencement

**Author's Note:**

> I'm generally following the major MCU plot with my own twists. Sorry if some dates/ages etc. are not quite right--I may take small liberties here and there. The story so far happened after Homecoming.

1.

“You have been playing with these tomatoes for the last 26 minutes. Are you eating them or proposing a marriage to them?” Tony stark sat across from him at the other end of this tiny table, gracefully forking down a morsel of beef tartare.

Peter Parker was very uncomfortable at this restaurant. It was too grandiose, too French and too not-Peter-Parker-from-Queens. The only thing he could understand from the menu, all handwritten in italics, was a ‘Les tomates farcies’ which turned out to be tomatoes stuffed with lamb, to be devoured with 4 different sets of utensils.

How he missed Carlo’s falafel shop just 3 blocks down May’s apartment.

“Errm. I just…I thought you said you hated rich people’s food.” He mumbled.

“I did. And I do.” Stark put another piece in his mouth, “But there’s nothing like a good French steak on a cold day. And don’t listen to the snobs who say beef tartares are not steaks.”

Stark seemed to be in good mood, which came rare those days. He wore an impeccable 3 piece suit, European slim fit, with a platinum gold tiepin. All custom made, no doubt. Peter Parks wondered if the man ever wore sweatpants or hoodies. Whenever he was not in the iron suite, he always seemed to clad himself in expensive garments, armors of a different kind of order. Was he perpetually in a war of one kind or another? Was that why he always worn his tailored chainmail to the toe?

Although the man had not been intervening with (or assisting?) his spiderman missions as often now, and he took it as a hopeful sign that he might be finally making progress as a superhero.

Iron man and spiderman. Drinking wine (for Tony; Sparking grape juice for him) and talking about tartare.

There was something surreal about the whole thing, he knew.

The war was far from over, the last battle that broke the Avengers was one year ago. It was hung over everyone’s shoulders but never talked about, the humongous elephant in the room. He never asked Stark how it went down between him and Cap. It was not his place to; in addition, he didn’t know how to approach the topic without clumsiness. But perhaps the real reason was that, deep down, he just didn’t care about it enough if the cost would be upsetting him.

“Um…Tomatoes are…” He bit a little too quickly on his food, hot juice spilled all over his tongue, “Arr…good.” He rolled the food over, trying to cool the skin a little, and swallowed as he started to tear up.

Tony Stark raised his eyebrow, but didn’t make any comments, for which he was grateful.

He mentally reproached himself, for making a fool of himself right in the swankiest restaurant in Manhattan. With Tony Stark watching him.

Tony Stark. Watching him.

The thought sent a spark down his throat, his spine, coiling in his stomach. He would not dare to look up from his plate to look at the man across.

“You can have your iced water, if you want.” Stark’s friendly reminder. He looked slightly amused that the young man actually needed someone to remind him.

“Good idea. Umm. Thanks.” His cheeks were burning now, and he went to grab his iced waster hastily.

The older man waited for him to gulp down the glass, so he could catch a break to recover from his embarrassment

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

“My birthday is 4 months away.”

“I know. Happy disapproved all my birthday presents ideas. He said, and I quote, that it’s as if I have an inventory of whatever these things coming out of Pandora’s box, giftwrap them in a Bergdorff Goodman bag and ready to call a courier.” The man almost finished everything in his plate, “I didn’t know Happy was so versed in Greek mythology metaphors.” He folded his hands under his chin, “So, what do you want for your birthday?”

He knew it was bizarre, the two of them talking about appropriate presents, eating out on a weekday, critiquing on food, as if the world was still a normal place; as if everyone still had a functional life structure, and that no one in this planet was worried about whether they would die today on their commute when a metro would be ripped apart by a fleet of alien soldier; as of no one knew at least one dead person, their family or friends, killed in a burning highway lit by razor guns of alien troops; as if no one noticed or was now living in a silent panic that they are powerless—they had no choice but to believe in the superheros; or they would just surrender to fate. So how come, that everyone just pretended their life was normal, putting on their make up, bought their shaving cream, still recycled their trash, as if they still cared about these minuscule tasks, as if they mattered?

But the war is not over. He could sense a bigger storm on its way. He didn’t know what, when and where. But he knew that somewhere, a countdown had started. But what was it counting down towards?

“Mr. Stark,” he ventured--there were many times he thought about talking it out with this man who seemed to have all the answers “do you think…”

Their waiter, manifesting himself out of nowhere, was suddenly by their table.

“How do you like your dinner so far? Do Mr. Stark and this young gentleman need anything else?”

He blurted out: “I am not ‘young’ -I am 18.”

“Well,” Stark said to no one in particular, “in 4 months, yes.” Ever the personification of social grace, he told their waiter to bring him another bottle of the same Bordeaux.

As the waiter walked way, Stark reached over and took the remaining half of his stuffed tomatoes. He didn’t ask for permission, and did it with the usual command and entitlement that he always embraced towards everything. He watched as the older man absentmindedly took a bite of the grilled fruit, with its lamb filler, his lips moving so subtlely and rhythmically, savoring the leftover as if it was a luscious feast.

His throat felt dry, and he blamed the heater.

“Well?” The older man looked at him, expecting an answer.

He took in a deep breath.

“Will you...would you, I mean, well, come to my commencement?”

The idea had been with him for a while now, and he had toyed with various hypotheticals of how to present this bequest. He had never really believed that it would ever come to fruition. Or that the man would care enough about his birthday present.

The man in question put down his wine glasses a little too heavily on the table.

He hurriedly added in, “It doesn’t matter, really. I know it’s very long and boring. No one really wants to go to any commencement anyway. They didn’t even invite anyone interesting speaker this year.”

Tony Stark gave a long sigh.

“I knew I should’ve just suggested a Porsche.”


End file.
